


A {Mod}ified Redemption

by jadeyes914



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Arthur Morgan vs Micah Bell showdown, Character Study, Coding, Cussing, Dealing With Trauma, Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, F/M, Fix-It, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Humor to offset the FEELS train, Journaling, Let's get dangerous!, MODDING, PTSD, Pining, Psych Ward, Redemption, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Therapy, Video Game Mechanics, You Have Been Warned, fraternal twins, retired badass, siblings bickering, the showdown we've been waiting for, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:20:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25739476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadeyes914/pseuds/jadeyes914
Summary: Notes for config:RDR2_Windows File Explorer > Open with > Text Editor. Save edits. Run and test for crashes.Code for separate {float} text window enabled. Journal opens terminal window."Who the hell's been writin' in my journal?"In which one player disliked the ending enough to create a mod that worked unexpectedly too well, and the oblivious beta-tester that inadvertently alters his story.….This is not a character-gets-sent-into-the-game kind of story.**New prologue chapter added**
Relationships: Abigail Roberts Marston/John Marston, Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there's more to this story than twins anticipated, and the showdown between the two gunslingers is imminent.

<div id= "Prologue"></div>

_12/24/2018_

Loading…

ERROR

400 Bad Request

Wren shook the screen in frustration. “Dammit! No no no God NO!”

Behind him, a gun clicked—the noise silenced his frantic thoughts and stopped his racing heart. A menacing chuckle followed behind it.

“Sorry, but not quite.”

No, it couldn't be. Yet somehow, it was. Wren slowly turned to face the intruder, his familiar face only led him into another round of impossible questions. The scraggly blonde hair, the old-fashioned mustache, the sun burnt, scarred face. Micah Bell stood in his living room: real, alive, breathing, and homicidal.

Micah’s eyes dilated, like the eyes of a predator before pouncing on their prey. The barrel of his gun pressed flush against Wren’s throat. “So you’re the one I have to thank for fucking up my plans, huh?”

“Nope,” another voice in the room interrupted, surprising them both, “That’d be me.”

Micah whipped his head around, only to be met with a flying dance pole (which is long story for another day). It abruptly crashed against his skull, causing his gun to fly across the room. “AUGH!” 

“Gesundheit!” Rhea jumped over the fallen gunslinger to grab her twin brother and pull him away to safety. 

“The gun!” He’d seen enough TV to have the forethought to take away the enemy’s weapon. Wren scrabbled to the gun to grab it before running out the door with Rhea, slamming it behind them.

“Where the fuck have you been!” Wren cried, caught between indignation and relief. 

“Saving you! You’re welcome, by the way!”

Gunshots abruptly halted their bickering, the bullets whizzed past them through the closed door. They immediately fell to the floor, the shattered splinters of the door cascading over their backs. While remaining low, Rhea hastily crawled away to pull a lone bench in front of the doorway. Wren frantically budged to the other end to push it clumsily into place, tilting it under the door nob.

‘Dammit, I forgot that he has another one!’ Clamoring for the Micah’s stolen firearm, his shaky hands fumbled the unfamiliar weaponry. Rhea scoffed next to him, swiftly taking it out of his hands. “Give me that, before you hurt yourself!”

Right, give it to the veteran. Honestly, Wren never worked well under pressure, so you can hardly blame him for forgetting that bit of vital information. Behind them, the door shook violently under Micah’s exertions—he was banging himself against it, like an enraged hound.

“I’m coming fo’ ya! Ain’t nothing gonna keep you from me!”

“Go go go go GO!” Rhea chanted loudly, practically dragging her scared brother down the hall. At their rear, their abused door gave way, the bench falling to the floor with it. 

Shit. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. 

The twins hurried into the elevator door, which opened just in time (unluckily for the other occupant), almost crashing into the unsuspecting woman. In her surprise, she released her terrier dog, which dashed out the elevator growling at their assailant, launching its tiny body at Micah’s leg. With a loud yelp, he attempted to shake it off, and the elevator doors closed before the twins in their escape. Classic, 1970s muzak [tunes](https://youtu.be/SDghlpUUOK8) played over their heads as Rhea and Wren panted through their adrenaline high and covered in debris, head-to-toe. Their grey-haired neighbor tsked.

“Oh dear. Those process servers are getting mighty aggressive these days, aren’t they?” the elderly lady huffed disapprovingly. The twins stared at her, wide eyed.

“Ok," Wren cried between panicked pants, his alarm now focused at his sister, " _Just what the hell is going on!?_ ”

That's when the elevator doors opened to reveal Arthur Morgan, in the flesh, standing there in the corridor with his hands casually tucked into his pants pockets, like he'd been patiently waiting for them to finish their little detour. Without preamble, Rhea threw Micah’s gun into his hands, not bothering with the startled audience around them. “Time to make yourself useful, boah!”

The gun clicked in his capable hands. The elderly lady hummed approvingly next to them, making Wren wonder (not for the first time) what she used to do for a living. 

“With pleasure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first action scene! I hope I did alright. This came to me just an hour ago, and I wanted it to be the start of this story.


	2. The Twins

I used to keep a small chest, something my mom gave me while growing up, to fill with memories. I kept all my little notes, letters, and cards in there—anything written that mattered. I wish I had something to keep from Arthur, but that was just it, there was nothing. There was nothing left from our time together, nothing but lines of code. I don’t even fucking understand code.

I tried to draw his face—that expression he had when I said goodbye. I wanted to remember those eyes forever, but my hands could not begin to even fathom how to illustrate the history that hid in the shadows of his stormy blue eyes. How could I? No color or medium felt enough.

So I sat there with my hands over my incomplete collection of all my important memories, incomplete because it lacked an essence of him—Arthur Morgan. In turn, I felt like I was missing a part of myself: how I got here (the history of me), because he changed me.

He really did.

* * *

<div id=“Chapter One”></div>

_Two months before..._

_10/24/2018_

_Happy one year (medical) retirement anniversary! So far I have completed exactly:_

  * _7 pages to my book_
  * _26 therapy sessions_
  * _1 relapse_
  * _1 hospital stint_
  * _0 new languages learned_
  * _0 traveling_



_Fuck yeah, I’m living my life now. Kill me._

_10/25/2018_

_Have been sitting here, possibly forgotten about, for approx. half an hr now wondering what in the blue blazes a fucking_ **_bear_ ** _is doing in the middle of the hospital room, and why is no one alarmed about it?_

As if finally taking notice to the half-crazed beam of anxiety focused towards it from across the room, said-bear rolled right side up to look back, it’s tongue stuck out in a friendly gesture.

_Oh shit, it’s a dog. Nevermind._

_…_

_Therapist insists on keeping a journal. I refuse to call it a diary, I’m not some pre-pubescent tween writing angsty love poetry to whiny punk rock music. I’m an intelligent, sophisticated, so-so accomplished grown woman with ideas and and other things._

_I don’t know what I’m saying._

_Eggs_

_Bread_

_Butter_

_Creamer_

_Coffee_

_10/27/2018_

_Wren thinks we should get an apartment together. Guess it wouldn’t be the worst idea, and I already know I can stand long lengths of time w/ him and not want to kill him (most days)._

_He’s been sulking ever since he lost his job at Telltale Games. Neither of us should probably be left alone, so cohabiting would make things easier. He’s been a bit better ever since he got a new job in Boston, even if it’s just a small game company. With my retirement paycheck and his new job, we should be able to cover the rent easily enough._

_As much as I love our parents, it’d be nice to get away and try to be an adult again. I can tell my therapist once everything’s settled down, and I’ve moved in._

_I’m not postponing it. Really._

_10/28/2018_

_Wren is so damn high maintenance sometimes._

“All I want is a walk-in closet, a large tub, and a nice kitchen island. Is that too much to ask?”

“With our pitiful paychecks? Yes. Learn to lower your standards, little bro. You’ll be much happier in life if your expectations are rock bottom to begin with.”

“Jesus, Rhea, don’t ever take up motivational speaking, and seriously? I’m only 1 minute younger than you.”

“But a whole decade younger mentally. Trust me, you’ll get there.”

“Says the one who took a bite out of a wax cupcake.”

“It was one time, and I was a child! Let it go!”

“Ok, Elsa.”

“In my defense, it looked very convincingly real, and that teacher, I swear, was trying to choke me.”

“Hey, I’ve thought about it too.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be the ‘nicer’ twin?”

_Wondering if this is the best idea, after all. Don’t exactly have a line of prospective roommates available, though. I hate other people, too. I don’t hate him, though. The sad thing is, he’s probably my only real friend now, after everything that’s happened._

_Don’t think about it._

_10/30/2018_

_We’ve settled on an apartment. Finally! Know it’s only been a few days, but when you’re trailing after Wren all day, nitpicking every little detail, each minute feels like a whole day._

_This is why I feel old._

_We compromised and just got an apartment with a walk-closet and none of his other “requirements.”_

“Is the closet for all your clothes or is it just for you?”

_He did NOT appreciate that joke._

_Woke up to saran wrap in my face when I tried to get up from bed. He used to be so sweet. Getting laid off destroyed him, I swear._

_11/21/2018_

_Walked in on Wren crying his little, bleeding heart out while playing RDR2. Walked right back out of there. Too many feelings for me so damn early in the morning, and I’ve got an appointment to get to._

_Feel kind of bad about it now... maybe I’ll get him a cup of coffee on my way back from therapy._

_...Or not. He left the damn toilet seat up again._

_Ended up buying him a coffee anyway, since I had to stop to get myself one too. Someone ahead of me in line was kind enough to pay for my coffee. Thought it was cool, so I asked to pay for the car behind me in the drive thru line. Turns out they bought practically all of the shop’s menu. Damn, that’s what I get for trying to be nice._

_I should just stay a jerk, but then my therapist would probably just characterize it as “internalized anger at an unrelated circumstance, causing self-imposed solitude to protect oneself from—“blah blah blah again. Dude, I just want to save my money. Shit pays more._

_“If you really wanted to save money, why didn’t you just make your own coffee?” Was what I was greeted with when I finally got home. Shut up, Wren. I don’t need that kind of logic around here._

_Just take your overpriced latte and be happy. Only one of us is allowed to be the fucked up one, and that’s me. Spot’s taken._

_11/27/2018_

_Wren has been v. mysterious lately. Hardly seen outside of grabbing food from fridge, then back to his man cave. Thought I was supposed to be the hermit? Just been hearing muttering and heavy metal music through his door. Open door to stag motifs everywhere. Is little bro converting to Paganism?_

_Should I switch from “Merry Christmas” to “happy holidays?” How to explain to Greek Orthodox parents... Yáya won’t be happy, but when is she? Not looking forward to her metal grip of death. Her small, frail act doesn’t fool me, she knows what she’s doing. The way she helplessly hobbles towards you, lulling you into a sense of security and protectiveness... before she lashes out and clutches onto your arm like she’s going to drag you to hell for reciting Hail Mary wrong._

_What’ll she do when she finds out little bro isn’t an innocent, God fearing Christian anymore? Not that I particularly am, but that’s beside the point. Wren can’t lie to save his life. Maybe I’ll just skip the next family reunion? Work on my book instead?_

_Book writing going nowhere and skull’s a shit substitute for bouncing ideas off of. Need Wren to come back from his dark lair of angst. Come back guinea pig, your services are required!_

_11/28/2018_

_Prince of Darkness has finally graced me w/ his sparkling presence only to ask me for a favor. Typical, little to moro adheríós needs his adheríí to come to the rescue. No, “hey, how’s the book going?” or, “want some coffee?” or even, “what about a shot of tequila for your troubles,” oooh no._

“Please! I just need a beta-tester for my mod! I know you’ve been beta-testing for other game companies on the side.”

“Yeah, for cash! I don’t see you offering anything, you little turd. Where’s my compensation?”

“You owe me! My co-workers still won’t stop calling me Rihanna after that stupid video you posted on my Facebook of me waking up in full makeup because of you!”

“...Ugh, fine, but you can’t use that again for another year.”

_He’s lucky I’m so v. nice and giving. Could be writing another Shakespeare for all he knows. Only been rewriting the first chapter of my book about 50x, but every time I get just a bit closer to something that might even resemble a plot. That’s progress._

* * *

**SOFTWARE BETA TESTER NONDISCLOSURE AGREEMENT**

This is an agreement, effective date: are you fucking serious, 20(_(_|, between Her Majesty Queen Rhea and Buttmunch Wren.

_“What the hell are you doing? What even is that, next to the 20?”_

_“It’s a picture of a butt, buttmunch.”_

_“That’s supposed to be the year! Y’know what? Just give me that. I’ll fill one out for you and you can just sign it. Jesus.”_

_“I thought you were Pagan now?”_

_“What?”_

_“Nevermind. Just give it here, so I can sign it and get this over with. Can’t believe you have me signing a freaking nondisclosure.”_

_“It’s just what you do for this stuff, wait... Don’t sign it as Batman!!! Oh my_ **_God_ ** _...”_

_“Yáya will be so happy, now I won’t have to be dragged to hell.”_

_“I feel like ‘what?’ is just this ever constant mantra going through my head every time I interact with you.”_

* * *

_Notes for config:_

_RDR2_Windows File Explorer > Open with > Text Editor. Save edits. Run and test for crashes._

_Code for separate {float} text window enabled. Journal opens terminal window._

_ HTML5 _

_<!-- <script src="src/journal.js"></script> \-->_   


__<!-- <script src="src/arthur.js"></script> \-->_ _

_<!-- <script src="src/tuberculous.js"></script> \-->_

__<!-- <script src="src/player.js"></script> \-->_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so there’s no confusion: they’re fraternal twins. Wren is a guy and Rhea is a girl. 
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	3. I Wish It Was True

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is "I Wish It Was True" by The White Buffalo.

<div id=“Chapter Two”></div>

When I was an in-patient at a mental health hospital (in the military affiliated wing), there was one fellow patient there that struck me in particular.

This older gentleman came up to me while we were in line for our morning medications, and he showed me a picture of his daughter that he thought looked just like me. She had committed suicide some time ago. I was there for attempted suicide, in part because of my undiagnosed PTSD. I chose not to disclose that to him, since it seemed like it would hit too close to home.

While I was bored, I made a bunch of bead bracelets for the other patients. When I gave him one, he went back to his room and cried. He said that no one had ever made anything for him before, and he asked me to make him another, which I did. Even though the first bracelet seemed a little too small for him, he wore them both everyday.

When I was finally being discharged, he hugged me goodbye and said he loved me. He became a lasting reminder of how my family would be affected by my suicide. 

And that memory will stay with me forever.

While I watched the view of the hospital slide away, as we turned the corner from my cab to the airport (to fly back to base and all the disparities that came with it), I listened to a song. Something I wish I knew before. Something that I think should’ve been our theme song for my screwed up, ragtag group of in-patient friends. For all our cheerfulness, despite our reasons for being there, and all the great memories we had together, there was an underlying sense of betrayal that I think we all shared.

It rang true then. It rang true when I heard of my veteran friend ending up on the streets. It rang true when we all managed to scrape together funds to get him home, because no one else would. It rang true when my other friend’s command leadership turned their backs on him. It rang true when my command did too. It rings true still. 

I put down what I could remember of the song, as if trying to grasp the string of memory by making it solid. I probably shouldn’t have been doing that where I did, but it was the closest thing that I had. I guess that I empathized with this “Arthur Morgan,” as I read through his journal. It reminded me… Funny, how such a small thing changed everything.

* * *

_Mother, I tried to do right by you,_

_To do what you asked me to._

_I did wrong, and I knew._

_Father, well I gave my soul to you._

_I came in blind folded for you._

_It was all that I knew._

_Boy, come on out from the cold._

_You're lost outside there, don't you know?_

_It's not what you say, it's what you do._

_Just keep wishing your wishes are true._

_There's no pain, there's no misery._

_Just polish the blood and the brews._

_For there's just no way you can lose._

_Well I wish it was true._

_I was a soldier to you._

_I did what you asked me to._

_It was wrong, and you knew._

_Now I'm just a stranger to you._

_A number, a name; it's true._

_Throw me away when you're through._

_Home of the brave and the free,_

_I wish it was true._

_I wish it was true, too._

<div id= “The Grizzles”></div>

_I do not know who’s been snooping ‘round and writing in my journal. Or maybe I was only sold a used journal. I am not sure which I’d prefer._

_I want to be mad. I should be. Though I cannot help but wonder why someone would go to the trouble of sneaking into my one privacy just to write a note like that. Is this writing?_

_Who are you? ~~Why would you~~ ~~How did you~~_

_~~Stop~~ _

_Just who are you_

_I want to know_

Arthur should be furious, and to be honest, he did feel a bit peeved. This was a violation of his one and only reprieve, the one thing that was his and his alone. He shared everything else in his life: his food, materials, money, time, everything. 

For some reason, though, that annoyance was overruled by curiosity. It was as if someone had taken all his jumbled, disjointed, ineloquent words and understood him. No, they didn’t just understand him, it was more like they ripped off a bandage to a festering wound he’d been trying to ignore and poked at it.

His stormy blue eyes looked up from the page to scan through his surroundings. No one met his eyes in recognition, suspicion, or guilt. He looked back down to lightly press his weary fingers through the quote. There was no indention in the paper from a pen, like it wasn’t even written at all. 

Was this a poem? Or lyrics from a song? 

Arthur readjusted uncomfortably in his chair. Then he closed his journal, tucked it back into his pack, got up, and left the cabin. The bite of the cold hit him hard when he opened the door, but that didn’t matter. Dutch needed him. Things may have gone south since Blackwater, but they’ll figure out where to go from here.

For whatever reason, he turned towards the grave of Davey Callander, who couldn’t make it this far. Poor Jenny—they had to bury her in the middle of nowhere. They paid for their mistakes in their last scheme. 

_Boy, come on out from the cold._

_You're lost outside there, don't you know?_

No.

He tried not to think about it. All day he tried not to think about it, but when he got back from the hit on the O’Driscoll base, with Kieran in tow, and the pride that he normally felt when Dutch called him his son ( _Father, well I gave my soul to you._ No.) felt dull. He had to keep going.

This was all that he knew.

“Now all of you! All of you! Stay with me. We ain’t through yet,” Dutch had said, ending his uplifting speech to the remains of their ragtag gang, the script of which Arthur later found.

He thought about poor, sweet Jenny. Davey. And for all he knew, Mac and Sean. Arthur took out his journal and opened it up again. An irrational feeling of disappointment washed over him when he flipped through the pages to see no new entries since the last mysterious one. Regardless, he continued, scribbling down in his own cursive writing under the neat text from his secret writer.

_I wish it was true too._

* * *

if ( ! function exists( ‘save_arthur’ ))

{

ThomasDownes();

}

else if (goalAchieved)

{

DutchvandeLind();

MichahBell();

}

else

{

TB = true;

JohnMarston();

{

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter. Just getting back into the groove of writing again. Next one should be longer.


	4. The Freshmen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Rhea continue their unknowing correspondence. Wren starts to clue in that there is something unusual going on with the game. Lenny finds some closure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is "The Freshman" by The Verve Pipe.
> 
> **There’s a new prologue chapter at the beginning, incase you missed it.**

I had a friend in school, and he was like a brother to me. It’s such a crazy thing, when you think about it; you meet someone for the first time, and yet it’s like getting together with an old friend that you’d known forever. I still don’t understand how that happens.

He was such a genuine person. Even when we disagreed, we knew we’d still be there for each other at the end of the day. How many people can you say that about? 

We gabbed about our favorite movies and shared our dreams for our future—back when talk of growing up was still this hopeful, bright idea. He wanted to make movies, and I wanted to enlist. I remember when I got on the bus towards boot camp, I whipped out my phone to say my last goodbyes while my life was still my own (before they took away my phone to concentrate on training). I saw that he had posted that he was proud of me and that he’d talk to me when I got out. But we never did get to talk again.

He’d gone to the hospital, some time while I was in training. They released him a couple days before I graduated, believing that the worst was over. Then he died the day after I finally got home. I found out through a mutual friend on a phone call, while I was out shopping for groceries. It wasn’t how you’d imagine receiving one of your more climactic piece of news in your life. I’m sorry, my friend, but those movies lied to us.

It was just so unfair. We had only just begun living, he was only a freshman in college. You just never know when your last days with someone are over. It’s not always as beautifully tied together like in movies, with a touching montage of shared memories. Sometimes, life just ends in the middle of a sentence—with no conclusion.

I wasn’t able to make it to his funeral, so on one drunken night, I raised my glass to him. I wish I knew what song they played at his funeral. I always sang my best when drunk, though others would disagree with me. What do they know, anyway?

_For the life of me_  
_I cannot remember_  
_What made us think we were wise and_  
_We’d never compromise_

  
_For the life of me_  
_I cannot believe_  
_We’d ever die for these sins_  
_We were merely Freshmen_

It’s been 8 years since then, but I promised to live my life for the both of us. That way, should we ever meet again, I could tell him all about it. He deserved that much. 

When did I forget that? When did I…?

Don’t go back to being merely a ghost. Don’t. Because your life is more than just your own.

Don’t ever, _ever_ forget again. Because if I ever see him again, I want to be able to give him a smile.

* * *

  
<div id=“The Grizzlies”></div>

  
Arthur stood alone in front of Jenny Kirk’s grave, with a bundle of evergreen flowering shrubs in his hand. It was the best that he could do, considering the location. The snow was still crisp, and it crunched under his weight with every foot forward. He bent down and placed his meager offerings down at the base of the modest cross marker. She deserved more, but this was all he had for now. 

He wasn’t sure if he believed in an afterlife, like Hosea did. He wasn’t sure if he believed in anything. But if there is one, he imagined that the best fate that a man like him could hope for was a dark place, with a warm and inviting fire. Maybe a friend sitting next to it, waiting patiently to share some tales with him. If that was as close to redemption as he could ever get, then he’d take it.

“Arthur?”

He looked behind him to find Lenny coming off his horse and marching towards him. He wrapped his coat more tightly around as he looked towards Arthur, with a confused and concerned look in his eyes. “What are you doing here? We were looking for you.”

“Ahh, I’m sorry. I just… I don’t know,” Arthur admitted, struggling to find an explanation in his jumbled mind. Lenny glanced down at the pitiful little shrubbery he had left at Jenny’s grave, and he sniffed. Either from the cold or the situation, he wasn’t sure. Arthur knew that Lenny was sweet on her. He probably felt the loss of her presence harder than anyone.

“It seems wrong, doesn’t it?” Lenny mumbled, after a moment. “Someone as kind as her, ending up with a gang of hooligans like us. I—uh, we were supposed to protect her, to be her family.”

The silence that followed after said everything else. They stood there together, next to a cheaply made grave. At the crossroads of nowhere. To be remembered by no one, no one but them—the gang of hooligans.

Lenny dug through his pockets, furiously looking for something, until he pulled out what looked like a crumple piece of paper. He flattened it out the best he could, while keeping it folded over, and placed it next to the flowers. Then he stood back with Arthur, as solitary as the grave.

“We… used to talk about a lot of things. Things we wanted to do when we saved up enough money,” Lenny confessed, though not really to Arthur. It seemed more directed at nothing and no one. He just looked blankly ahead. “I was going to take her to so many places.”

Thinking back to the last entry from his mystery writer, Arthur awkwardly placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “You can still go to those places. Then you can tell her all about 'em later.”

Shaken from his stupor, Lenny stared at Arthur with astonished wide eyes, before breaking into a small but warm smile. “Y’know, you’re not as dim as you like to act.”

With that he amicably jabbed Arthur in the arm and turned back to the horses. “C’mon! It’s almost time for supper.”

Before he left though, Arthur took out his journal and wrote:

_I promise not to forget._

  
...

  
Something was wrong.

Each time Wren tested his mod, the game became more and more buggy. He figured that he could fix it once he made all the necessary adjustments to his mod, but after that night that Rhea agreed to test out his mod, its been almost entirely irremediable. He could hardly control any part of the game anymore. He’d put it down as a simple error, except for the fact that the gameplay kept going, as if independent from player control. 

He tried asking Rhea if she’d noticed or done anything unusual, but she just shrugged, in her usual non-committal way. She’d only perused through the game briefly, and it was mostly just to skim through Arthur’s journal. She hadn’t tried going further yet.

Then just what the hell was going on?

  
  


* * *

if (!LennySummers) {

if (enemies + level >= 0) {  
level++;  
var max = 100;  
if (level <= enemyStrength + level) {  
var chance = (characterLevel = MaxOut)  
{ else if (goalAchieved)  
{  
LennySummers();  
}  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess these chapters will stay relatively short, but updates will be more constant. Anyway, I think we're due for a little lightheartedness after the last couple of really sad chapters. Next one should be a bit more fun.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
